Page 24 of Wicked Bloodlines

The cashmere wrap hung where I’d left it, draped over the back of the chair. I picked it up and ran my fingers along the inner seam. The lining was double-stitched, the seam tight and even except for a three-inch section near the hem. I worked my thumbnail into the gap and pulled. The thread gave with a soft rip.

The folding blade was small, no bigger than my thumb. The handle was brass, worn smooth from years of handling. I pressed the release and the blade snapped open, thin and wicked. I closed it and slid it into my right boot, tucking it against the inner seam where it wouldn’t shift when I walked. My father’s house had taught me to keep weapons close and never rely on a man’s protection. I’d never go to my own wedding unarmed, but knowing Belle wanted to help me feel more secure, gave me hope I might not be in as bad a place as I’d first feared.

I moved to the bathroom. The marble counter gleamed under the recessed lights. My toiletry bag sat beneath the sink where I’d left it… except it wasn’t flush with the edge of the cabinet floor. The bag sat slightly off center and the front of it away from the side. Like someone had placed it inside at an angle and not straightened it all the way.

I unzipped it and emptied the contents onto the counter, but didn’t see anything missing. I ran my finger along the interior seam and found the hidden compartment. The zipper tab wasn’t tucked into the seam. I did that, so I’d have a warning if someone messed with it. Not perfect, but also not something an average snoop would think of. Someone had definitely found my hiding place.

I stood very still, one hand on the counter, the other over my tummy. The air in the bathroom felt suddenly thick. My pulse kicked hard in my throat and I had to fight the urge to throw up. When I reached one, the panic had receded enough to think. The drive still sat in the tiny pocket, but my hiding place was compromised.

I didn’t waste time wondering who had searched the room or when. The question was what to do about it. I snagged the drive and put the bag back under the sink. Then I returned to the writing desk and opened the box with the comb.

Laying in a bed of silk, the hairpiece gleamed in the lamp light. This wasn’t the best place, but it would have to do. I was taking a chance Belle was on the up and up, and it probably made me all kinds of stupid, but I could feel the net closing in on me. I needed to keep in possession of this drive as long as possible. Until I figured out what to do and, more importantly, who I could trust. I tucked the thumb drive underneath the nest of silk. This box would absolutely go with me to the wedding and I could keep it on my vanity as a gift from my new sister-in-saw to be.

A knock at the door interrupted the silence. I crossed the room and opened it. An older woman stood in the hallway. Gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. “Miss Sofia,” she said. Her accent was thick, unmistakably from the old country. “A delivery from your father’s house.”

I took the arrangement from her. The crystal was cold against my palms. “Thank you.” It took everything I had to not tremble visibly.

She bowed her head slightly and turned away. Her footsteps faded down the hallway, measured and unhurried. I closed the door and carried the flowers to the writing desk. I looked at the card, which was in a wax-sealed envelope. The only message was a thick arrow pointing down.

With a sigh, I pulled out the flowers and found the small burner phone in plastic tucked between the flower stems, deep inside the vase. I powered it on. The screen glowed blue, then settled to the home screen. A single text message waited in the inbox.

Twenty-four hours. Real shipping intelligence from Pier 17 or Maria pays for your refusal. Clock starts now.

Maria was my younger half sister. Her only crime in life was being born. My mother had affair with Maria’s father and both my mother and her lover had paid the price. My father kept Maria alive to control me, and he flaunted that power over me constantly.

I read the message again and my throat closed. Cesare moved faster than I expected. He knew I would refuse to spy on the Lucas. He also knew exactly where to press. Maria had spent most of her life inside his house with staff who answered to him, guards who watched the gates, and doors that only opened when he permitted it. I was her only lifeline.

I set the vase down too hard and water splashed across the desk. My hands shook. I got a cloth from the bathroom to wipe the water from the table and forced my breath to not panic. I ground my teeth. I needed a plan, not a breakdown.

First, the search. I needed to figure out who searched my things. I was guessing either Matteo or Dario. Possibly one of the staff, but only under orders of one of the men. This much I knew.

The hair comb box was the closest thing to secure. I set the box on my vanity. Obvious but not suspicious. A gift from my new “sister.”

Next, I opened my laptop and drafted a document in a folder labeled “Wedding Planning.” Inside, a password protected spreadsheet with shipping schedules. I listed every detail Cesare would want. Security logs, driver logs, even the frequency of guard rotations. It all pointed to the wrong checkpoint at Pier 17. The details were plausible, but the location was a dead end. If Cesare managed to get someone in the household on his payroll, they wouldn’t realize the second part of the information they wanted — the part with the actual details — was on my computer until they looked at the file. If it was Cesare’s people who’d come into my suite, it would explain the timing of the flowers with the phone, but I didn’t think so. Still, better safe than sorry.

I crossed to the window and looked out at the grounds of Villa Luca. The formal gardens spread below, manicured and still. Somewhere in this house, Matteo was working. Somewhere in the city, my father was waiting. And somewhere in a house I had once called home, Maria was going about her day, unaware that her life had become currency in a transaction she hadn’t agreed to.

Chapter Nine

Sofia

Eighteen hours left on my father’s clock, and I was standing outside Matteo’s office with a question about table arrangements. I didn’t really have a question. It was my excuse to spend some time with him. I didn’t exactly want to talk, but just… be in his presence. He calmed me with the steady way he projected himself, like there was nothing in the world he didn’t control.

The hallway stretched empty in both directions, the only sound the muted thrum of the villa’s heating system and my own pulse hammering in my ears. I’d rehearsed the question twice in my bathroom mirror. My voice had sounded steady. My hands had not. Which was stupid. I’d fucked this guy, for Christ’s sake! I’d say I felt guilty for not coming to him with what I had, but I wasn’t entirely sure how much I trusted him. It seemed the smarter option to keep everything close to the vest for as long as I reasonably could.

I knocked gently, and he granted me entrance. The brass doorknob turned cold under my palm. I pushed. Matteo’s office smelled of leather and the faint, sharp tang of the whiskey he’d been nursing. He sat behind a massive desk that dominated the far wall, a laptop glowing blue beside a half-empty tumbler of amber liquid and nothing else. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and veins and those scarred knuckles moving as his fingers moved with surprising skill over the computer keyboard.

Then his gaze raked over my body with an appreciative brush I could practically feel against my skin. Aside from how he obviously liked what he saw, I thought he might also see me as a puzzle he’d been trying to solve since the day I’d arrived.

“You’re up late,” he said.

“I couldn’t sleep.” That much was true, at least. “Thought I’d ask you about the seating chart for the reception. Belle gave me the list but I’m not sure about placement for some of your associates.” Christ. I felt like a little kid slinking in to her parent’s bedroom because she’d had a nightmare.

His lips twitched. “Seating charts.”

“Um, yes.”

“At ten forty-five.”